


A Poetry Lesson

by HewerOfCaves



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Flirting, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 13:08:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28654008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HewerOfCaves/pseuds/HewerOfCaves
Summary: “Maitimo,” Ingwion repeated slowly, rolling the name in his mouth, delighted by the way his lips came together and parted, his tongue touched gently the back of his teeth to form the sounds. It made him feel bolder. “Aptly named,” he said.“Am I,” Maitimo said with the confident smile of someone who knows the answer very well.Two meetings between two princes
Relationships: Maedhros | Maitimo/Ingwion (Tolkien)
Comments: 25
Kudos: 33





	A Poetry Lesson

At first, Ingwion paid no mind to the air of excitement in the library. It was enough to know that it wasn’t about him; he was a frequent guest here. He also knew that it wasn’t unusual for impromptu poetry discussions to take place here or for scholars to meet for debates. So the prince stayed in his corner, reading the newest poems that had been written down at his request. He wasn’t always able to visit the poetry gatherings, but he didn’t want to miss anything. When he was done, he chose several poems to show his mother and stood. 

On his way out, he glanced at the small group gathered around a desk. He knew two of the loremasters; the other three were young, possibly only apprentices. The younger ones were whispering among themselves, while the loremasters were silently watching the elf who was hunched over a scroll, writing or rather drawing something, judging by the careful movements of the quill. One of the apprentices asked a question, and when the elf raised his head to answer, Ingwion, to his surprise, recognized Nelyafinwë, King Finwë’s eldest grandson. 

The Noldo was dressed plainly, in dark green and grey; he had no adornment on his head and wore his hair in a simple style—three narrow braids going from each temple to join together on the back of his head, the rest of his hair tumbling freely down his back. Ingwion wondered if he should approach, but Nelyafinwë seemed busy. Ingwion didn’t have much time either; the hour of the mingling was nearing, and he had to be with his family to sing for the waxing of Telperion.

He came back to return the poetry collection he had taken when Laurelin was in full bloom and found Nelyafinwë there again. He was alone this time, but for reasons he didn’t understand, Ingwion still hesitated for a moment before approaching. Nelyafinwë didn’t look surprised as he greeted Ingwion formally but warmly. 

“I have seen you here before a few times,” he said when Ingwion took a seat in front of him.

“A few times? How long have you been here?”

“Long enough to have seen you a few times,” Nelyafinwë said with a slight smile.

Ingwion was thrown off for a moment by the familiarity in the Noldo’s teasing words but found out that he didn’t dislike it. 

“Why didn't you let us know?” he asked. “You could stay with us as long as you wish. Our doors are always open before Finwë’s kin.”

“Thank you, but I have to decline,” Nelyafinwë said. “As tempting as it sounds, I have found a very cozy place to stay in the city. Besides, I am not here as a prince. I have come to help your scholars draw maps of the northern lands.”

“I didn’t know you were an expert in mapmaking.”

“Oh no, I am no expert. I am sure these will get redrawn later. I have traveled quite a lot, though, so I can offer my experience.”

Ingwion looked at the scroll on the desk. “You are being modest, Nelyafinwë. These are very well-drawn.”

Nelyafinwë’s smile grew a little brighter, and Ingwion felt strangely proud for causing it. “What region is this?” he asked, pointing at the map.

“This is a cave system in the northern part of the Pelóri,” Nelyafinwë said. “It is so huge that we haven’t reached the end yet. Every time that I go there, I explore a little more and come back to expand the map. It is fascinating. The entrance is hidden from view. We would not have discovered it if not for Aulë. He told my father about it, and we went to explore it. I often go there now. Imagine any cave you have seen. Now imagine it a hundred times more vast and beautiful. Wait, I will sketch it for you.” He drew an uneven line on a free corner of the scroll. “This is going to be redrawn anyway,” he said smiling. “And maybe they will appreciate my drawing.”

Ingwion watched as Nelyafinwë’s hand moved gracefully, and under his quill, various misshapen towers took form, swords hanging from the ceiling, miniature mountain chains, monster teeth, and rock icicles. 

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Nelyafinwë asked. “I have tried to do it justice.”

“It is,” Ingwion agreed. “Though I cannot imagine spending so much time in a cave, no matter how wondrous the rocks there are.”

“I don’t spend that much time there,” Nelyafinwë said. “That is why this map is still incomplete. There are so many places to go and so many wonders to see. If you go far enough into the north, the stars shine so much brighter. The light of the Trees is just a faint shimmer, and at times the sky itself is painted with many different colors. Words aren’t enough to describe its beauty. Maybe you should give traveling a try? I am sure you would enjoy it.” 

“Listening about it is much more enjoyable,” Ingwion said.

“Is it?” 

Nelyafinwë’s smile was almost smug, though still kind, and Ingwion sputtered, hurrying to save the situation. 

“I only mean that I prefer plains and woods over caves,” he said, though it wasn’t the only thing that he meant. The way Nelyafinwë’s eyes glowed radiantly when he was talking was also very enjoyable. “I would rather stay here and listen to stories about different places, than travel myself. There is no place better than Valmar, no mountain fairer than the Taniquetil.” 

“How could you know that if you have not seen the other places?” 

“There are a lot of marvelous places to see here.”

“Really?”

Ingwion decided not to take offense because he liked the smile on Nelyafinwë’s lips.

“Obviously,” he said with a smile of his own. “Have you spent all your time here drawing maps?”

“Of course not. There is time for work and time for fun.”

Ingwion didn't know why the way Nelyafinwë said the last word made him shiver.

“Speaking of work,” the Noldo said. “I am done for now.” He seemed to be thinking for a moment. “But I will be here later.”

Ingwion expected him to continue, but Nelyafinwë said nothing else. He only covered Ingwion’s hand with his and squeezed it. Ingwion barely stopped himself from looking down because he knew it would make this situation even odder. Instead, he held his breath and focused his gaze on Nelyafinwë’s face. It seemed too long before the Noldo got to his feet and said his farewells. Ingwion was surprised to find himself still smiling after Nelyafinwë left.

He waited until Telperion waxed and waned twice before he returned to the library. Nelyafinwë was there, as he had promised. 

“It looks like you have finished your work,” Ingwion said, noticing the absence of maps on the desk. 

Nelyafinwë looked up. “I will be honest. Drawing maps is not the only reason I am here,” he said. “The Library of Valmar has the largest collection of poetry. I enjoy reading it.”

“I am quite sure that you are reading Elemmírë,” Ingwion said, laughing a little. 

“Guilty,” Nelyafinwë smiled, raising a book.

“You know she is not the only great poet we have. Every second Vanya tries their hand at it, and many succeed.”

“Is that so? Do you write poetry too?”

“I...” Ingwion didn't know why he was so flustered. Maybe it was because of the intensity in Nelyafinwë's gaze or because of the barest hint of a teasing smile on his lips. “I have written several hymns to Manwë, which my mother put to music.”

“Oh, I would love to read them! Do they have them here?”

“No, no, they aren't good enough to be kept in the library.”

“I truly doubt that. If you want to prove it, you will have to sing them for me.”

Ingwion couldn't tell if the Noldo was serious or not. “Just not in the library, Nelyafinwë,” he joked. “Or the real poets will beat me up with the books.”

Nelyafinwë laughed. A clear, ringing laugh like the bells on the bay tree which grew in front of Ingwion’s window. He had put up the silver and golden bells himself, had added, removed, and replaced them until he had perfected the sound.

“I am too an avid lover of poetry,” Ingwion said before he could regret it. “I can show you works by other poets if you wish.”

He read the surprise in Nelyafinwë's eyes. The Noldo stood. “Lead the way,” he said.

In the back of his head, Ingwion knew that his offer entailed more than poetry books, but he wasn't sure what exactly, was reluctant to think of it. Maybe Nelyafinwë truly only wanted to read poetry, maybe the Noldor were just overly friendly. Yet the other day Nelyafinwë's touch on his wrist lingered for a moment too long.

He walked to a remote corner of the library, away from everyone’s eyes, preferring to ignore the perfectly good poems on closer shelves, acutely aware that Nelyafinwë was just behind him. His heart was fluttering with excitement. When they reached the shelf, he stopped in front of it, closing his eyes for a brief moment.

“Some of my favorites are here,” he said, turning to Nelyafinwë.

He drew a sharp breath. He knew the Noldo had been following him, but he hadn’t expected to find him so close. Nelyafinwë was tall for a Noldo, nearly at height with Ingwion himself, and he was beautiful in a stern, intimidating Noldorin way: high cheekbones, piercing eyes, proud nose. Ingwion felt his heart in his throat. He raised his hand slowly, without fully realizing what he was doing until his fingers were almost touching a long, dark red curl that fell over Nelyafinwë's ear. He stopped himself, feeling suddenly that he couldn’t bear it, that he would be struck by lightning if they touched. The air was as thin as on the peaks of the Taniquetil. He struggled to breathe.

“Nelyafinwë,” was all he managed to gasp.

“You may call me by my mother name,” Nelyafinwë said in a hoarse whisper. “Maitimo.”

“Maitimo,” Ingwion repeated slowly, rolling the name in his mouth, delighted by the way his lips came together and parted, his tongue touched gently the back of his teeth to form the sounds. It made him feel bolder. “Aptly named,” he said.

“Am I,” Maitimo said with the confident smile of someone who knows the answer very well.

“Yes,” Ingwion said anyway. “Thank you for allowing me to use it. Every time I said your father name, it felt like a slight against my cousin.”

Maitimo laughed, and all the tension was suddenly gone. Ingwion was once again reminded of the sound of bells as the bay tree swayed in a warm breeze. He had no idea why he had thought Maitimo's beauty intimidating just a moment ago. It wasn’t. It was gentle like the light of Laurelin after the mingling when there was still just a hint of silver in the gold. The corners of Maitimo’s eyes crinkled when he laughed. Ingwion took Maitimo's curl between his forefinger and thumb. It was soft. He felt lightheaded. He was unafraid in the relative privacy of this little corner, ready to do anything.

“You are not like how I remember you from our last visit to Tirion,” he whispered.

Maitimo tilted his head. “I am different in Tirion. There I am Nelyafinwë, son of Fëanáro, grandson of Finwë. Among the Vanyar, I am not as noticeable. I rather enjoy the anonymity. Here I can be Maitimo, an ordinary Noldo, who has come to draw maps, read poetry and kiss the crown prince.”

Ingwion looked into Maitimo's eyes, barely daring to breathe. “You are falling behind on the last part, aren't you?” 

“Then it is time to rectify the mistake, wouldn't you say?”

“I would.”

Ingwion leaned forward and did what he had wanted to do since the first moment he laid eyes on Maitimo. He felt the Noldo’s smile against his lips, his fingers in his hair, his warm breath. He pulled Maitimo closer, shivering when they were chest to chest, sighing when the other elf deepened the kiss. Ingwion forgot for a moment where they were, forgot himself. His spirit was floating, his body was non-existent except where Maitimo’s burning touch connected him to the physical world.

Maitimo broke the kiss but didn’t move away, just turned his head a little, so his lips were now brushing over the shell of Ingwion’s ear. His arms tightened around Maitimo’s back. His awareness was slowly returning, and he was already looking out for every little noise that could disrupt their moment.

“The library isn’t the best place for this,” he said regretfully.

“Not very adventurous, are you?” Maitimo laughed and made no attempt to move.

“I don’t have the luxury of anonymity, Maitimo.”

“Do you have the luxury of privacy? You promised me a song, remember?”

Ingwion didn’t remember promising him, but he still nodded. “Maybe somewhere else,” he said.

“Maybe,” Maitimo whispered. “Maybe you can pay me a visit while I am in Valmar.”

“What did I say about anonymity?” Ingwion laughed. He shifted a little and finally let go of Maitimo, sighing. “You should come to me.”

Maitimo frowned. “I am not enjoying the idea of making small talk with the entire Vanyarin court.”

“I will choose not to be insulted,” Ingwion said. “But that wasn’t what I meant. There is a hidden way to my chamber. You should come straight there.”

“You _are_ adventurous after all,” Maitimo grinned. “I will come. I suppose your chamber is more... comfortable than my lodgings.” He took Ingwion’s hand. “Tell me how to find you,” he whispered and pressed his lips to the inside of his wrist. 

It took Ingwion a while to find his voice to answer.

\---

His wild look slid over the surrounding warriors as he slowly walked back. Ingwion expected it to linger on himself for a few moments longer, but it didn’t. There was no recognition in those eyes, no hesitation, no fear, nothing except stifling, overwhelming despair. Ingwion found it hard to believe that this was Maitimo.

Maedhros, that was how they called him here. A harsh name in a harsh land. Gone was Maitimo, the silvery sound of the word, gone was the ringing of the bells, gone was the softness around the mouth. He was all sharp angles now, hard lines, bared teeth for a smile, smoldering embers for eyes. His only hand holding the sword wasn’t shaking, and Ingwion knew that he would fight to the death, knew that it was what he wanted. 

An image came unbidden to his mind. Maitimo opening an eye, as Ingwion turns on his side and tucks a strand of hair behind his ear; Maitimo raising a brow in amusement, as Ingwion's slightly trembling fingers outline his face, slide along his brow, his cheekbone, leave feathery touches on his soft lips; Maitimo lifting himself up on his elbows, gently pushing Ingwion down by the shoulder and leaning over him, Maitimo's hair a curtain hiding them from the world, as they kiss.

During the long, terrible war, Ingwion had seen the hardness of the people of this land. There was no other way of living under Morgoth’s shadow except turning to stone. Ingwion had gotten used to it to the point that the sweet bells of Valmar seemed a distant dream. Or so he had believed. Now everything inside of him rebelled against the thought, refused to recognize the dazzling prince he had once kissed in the library of Valmar in this ferocious, rugged creature, tempered by loss and defeat.

He wondered if he should go after them, if he should kill Maedhros; wondered if it would be more merciful than what Eonwë had done, but before he could make a decision, the brothers had disappeared, and he knew he would not see them again.

He turned back and walked to his tent. The war was over. He would soon return to gentle Valinor, to majestic Taniquetil, to golden Valmar, where people smiled, and Maiar sang, and when the zephyr blew, the silver bells on the tree in front of his window rang as in laughter.


End file.
